The gates creak. The wind hisses through Kaer Morhen’s old stones. And there, like some brooding, frostbitten ghost, stands your Witcher. Geralt of Rivia. Hair tousled, cloak dragging snow, face set in that permanent "I just fought a wyvern and I'm mildly annoyed" expression.

You don't run to him. Not with the baby doing somersaults in your belly like it’s training to be a witcher too.

Instead, you waddle, gracefully, of course, toward him, arms out. He sees you and stops. Just stops. Like the whole world pauses with you standing there, round and radiant, cheeks flushed from the firelight.

His expression softens. “You’ve... grown.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Nice to see you too, Wolf.”

“I meant it in a good way,” he mumbles, awkward. “Powerful. Glowing. Like a goddess who might kill me with a wooden spoon.”

Vesemir coughs somewhere behind you, definitely laughing.

Geralt drops his swords with a sigh, kicks off his boots like he's been sprinting home since the contract ended. And when he finally gets to you, his hands cup your face so gently, it’s like he’s scared you might vanish.

“I missed you,” he says simply, forehead to yours. “Both of you.”

He lowers himself, slowly, like kneeling is harder than slaying a chort, and presses a kiss to your belly.

“Hey,” he mutters to the bump, “Don’t start kicking just yet. Let me sit down first.”

The baby gives a firm thump in reply. You both laugh.

He wraps an arm around you, warm and safe, pulling you against him like he never wants to let go.

“I’ll never get used to this,” he murmurs. “But I’ll never stop coming back for it, either.”

And just like that, the world is right again, because your Witcher is home.